


Guardian

by sarahenany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-14 00:20:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21006572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahenany/pseuds/sarahenany
Summary: Gabriel brings a new archangel who has less-than-complimentary things to say about Aziraphale's corporation. Crowley takes care of it.





	Guardian

“Hey, Aziraphale! Gee, it’s good to _finally _see you!”

Aziraphale froze in the middle of cataloguing unpublished 18th-century manuscripts.

“Since the angel won’t come to Heaven, the Archangels _must _come to the angel, huh?” Gabriel’s tight laugh rang out in the middle of the bookshop. “I know we have _forever, _but it’s _forever _since Heaven had a visit from you!” Another hearty chuckle that rattled the First Folios in their glass case.

Eyes fixed on the first page of a Victorian chapbook, Aziraphale carefully removed his reading glasses, feeling his shoulders tighten as he fought to look up. It was true that he had sent up his reports without putting in an appearance lately, but he’d been careful to follow protocol. He should have known it wasn’t enough… He brought himself up short. What kind of way was that to think? He should be _pleased _at a visit from his superiors, he reminded himself. Pleased that the Archangels cared enough to follow up on him, pleased that they thought enough of him to visit in person, pleased that they were _here_.

He swallowed. “Come in, come in,” he managed to say, pleasantly enough, still fiddling with his bookmark. These were his _superiors. _They were on the _same side. _He should feel _happy _and _safe _that they were in his bookshop, his space, his sanctuary.

He startled as a heavy hand descended on his shoulder.

Aziraphale hoped his flinch and little squeak hadn’t been too terribly obvious as he gave his documents a final shuffle and scrambled to his feet. Thank Heaven, or possibly miraculous intervention, the bookshop was deserted, so Aziraphale didn’t have to deal with the Archangels’ painfully inept attempts at blending in. Gabriel was looming over him accompanied by a tall, dark-skinned angel Aziraphale didn’t know, bulging with muscle under a tailored suit. From the power he exuded, the unfamiliar being was clearly an Archangel.

“Hard at work, huh? That’s what I like to see! Even on worthless human artifacts! Gotta keep up appearances and all that,” Gabriel laughed jovially, giving Aziraphale another clap on the shoulder that almost knocked him off balance. “You haven’t met Sariel, have you? You were sent down to Earth before he was done assisting the Almighty, I remember. Sariel was very kindly joining me in some blessings, and I told him he simply _had _to meet you. Our agent on Earth. More human than the humans!” Gabriel boomed, laughing uproariously. It wasn’t an insult, it was not. There was nothing wrong with being human. It was just Aziraphale being uncharitable.

“You are Aziraphale,” said Sariel, rather redundantly in Aziraphale’s opinion. “I am Sariel.”

“Avenger Upon the World of Lights, Prince of God,” Aziraphale acknowledged in greeting, barely stopping himself from wringing his hands. It was hardly Sariel’s fault that he, Aziraphale, had a completely unwarranted aversion to archangels in his bookshop. He could swear he heard his uncharitable musings taking corporeal form in some sort of disembodied hiss of air. Thoroughly shameful, he thought as he put on his best smile, stretching out a hand that he felt was remarkably steady. A tremble in the fingers didn’t really count, anyway.

But the Archangel Sariel didn’t take his hand. He was staring down at Aziraphale from his admittedly impressive height, square jaw dropped in evident distress. “What…” The Archangel looked Aziraphale up and down, then swallowed as though he were looking at the results of a particularly unpleasant car crash. “What _happened _to you?”

“Oh…” Aziraphale looked down at himself, using the hand he’d been holding out for a handshake to pat at his jacket and waistcoat. “Been shelving all day, you see, it gets rather...” He hadn’t thought the manuscripts were _that _dusty, really, but—

But Gabriel cut him off with a too-loud laugh, eyes darting from Sariel to Aziraphale. “That’s what happens when you remain in contact with…” the Archangel gave a rictus grin, “_humans _for too long.”

Sariel shook his head. “We can’t all be Archangels, but…” His eyes were wide with genuine shock. “I have never in all of eternity seen an angelic corporation shaped like,” he waved a hand, “like _that!”_ He met Aziraphale’s eyes with genuine concern. “Do they force you to – to consume gross matter? Is _that _what’s reduced you to _this?”_

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Gabriel gritted his teeth and cleared his throat loudly. “It, er, helps him to blend in. He’s making a sacrifice, really.”

“But—but this can’t be allowed to continue!” Sariel sputtered. “Look at the _shape—_the _softness, _the _padding. _It bespeaks sloth and gluttony. It’s a _disgrace!”_

The hiss of static in Aziraphale’s ears grew louder as he looked up at the tall archangel, clean-shaven and square-jawed, muscles pushing out the fabric of his tailored dove-grey suit, the single button of the jacket accentuating his wasp-waisted athlete’s figure, Sariel’s head shaking in genuine distress. Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. His throat appeared to be closed for business.

Sariel was still talking. “But how can you stand it?” He had started to pace around Aziraphale. “How do you _live _with having to be this soft? Are you obliged to fall into the vices of sloth and gluttony to keep up appearances?”

“Not—not obliged, really,” Aziraphale choked out. “Humans don’t _make _me do anything. In fact, I, er…” What was there to say? _ I fall into the vices of sloth and gluttony all on my own? _

Fortunately for Aziraphale, Sariel wasn’t really listening in favour of ploughing on. “I know you’re not an Archangel, but really… How can you bear the loss of your warrior form? How do you endure knowing you are no longer a soldier of Heaven?”

“N—not much call for fighting in a bookshop,” Aziraphale choked out. He was proud of the way his voice did not waver. His ears were filling with that staticky hiss again. Idly, he wondered if he was going to pass out.

“But it’s _unangelic! _An angel should be a _paragon.” _Sariel turned to the other occupant of the room in appeal. “Could _you_,” he looked up at Gabriel, “tolerate _your_ corporation being reduced to_ this?”_

“I guess not,” Gabriel conceded, shooting his cuffs and adjusting his tie and collar, “but it works for him, you know, being stationed on earth and all.”

Heat seemed to burn up Aziraphale’s cheeks. He had managed to settle into what he hoped was neutral: a stiff pose, expressionless, at attention.

_“_Really, Gabriel, you ought not to subject a fellow-angel to such a degradation. _Look _at this.” Sariel prodded Aziraphale’s chest. “_Soft. _No muscle at _all.” _Another prod, at his cheek this time, his chin. “And look at his _face.” _A finger poked, deep and rather uncomfortable, into Aziraphale’s belly. “You say he was a Principality once? Guardian of some sort of Gate?”

_Guardian of Eden, Angel of the Eastern Gate__, actually, _Aziraphale wanted to say, but no words came. His throat appeared to have reached the critical mass of a packed Tube train where nothing could come in or out.

“Still is a Principality,” Gabriel responded. Was he… _offended _on Aziraphale’s behalf? That question was laid to rest when Gabriel turned to Aziraphale and gave the kind of smile that usually meant the wearer was suffering from gas. “He’s had his sword-training and all, only… You know, being on Earth and all that. He forgets,” an awkward laugh, “you know how it is.”

Sariel straightened stiffly, pulling his jacket taut. “I most certainly do _not.” _

“Well,” Gabriel clapped his hands together, “you heard the Archangel, Aziraphale! Might be a good idea to lose the gut, get back into training! Fighting form, hmm? Like Sariel here!” Aziraphale nodded stiffly in what he hoped was a polite gesture. “Great talk! Good catching up. We’ll see you around, huh?” There was a spark in Gabriel’s eyes that might or might not mean he was irritated that Aziraphale had embarrassed him, but there was no time to parse the Archangels’ expressions before, in a blink, they were gone.

The hissing in his head seemed to grow louder as Aziraphale sank down onto the couch. _Soft. _It was soft. As he was. Soft. He was soft. What…? He couldn’t quite seem to get a grip on his thoughts. _How can you stand it_ seemed foremost in his mind, along with _You say he was a Principality once _and _Could you tolerate being reduced to this, _and peripherally, _What happened to you. _The thoughts seemed to parade across his mind with the stiff regularity of tin soldiers, with about as much emotion. He couldn’t seem to feel anything – not healthy outrage, not deserved shame, nothing really. Just a blank.

“What a peerless _fucking _pair of _unmitigated pissant wankers.”_

Aziraphale should have startled, really, but he didn’t have the energy. He just looked up, not even bothering to look for where the demon Crowley might be, much less wonder where he’d been hiding or whether he’d overheard the entire conversation or was just insulting the Archangels on general principle. Things were made a bit clearer to him when a black shape slithered out from under the World Religions bookcase, morphing into a long, lanky human form.

Crowley was striding out into the center of the bookshop, pacing rapidly in small, tight steps. “Of all the dickless, insufferable arseholes ever to walk the surface of _any _blessed planet, these take the fucking cake, they should fucking write a book on How to Be A Knob…” He pushed a hand through his hair, spluttering as his fount of insults appeared to temporarily run dry. He turned to the window, then whipped back around to Aziraphale again. “No, seriously, angel, is it some kind of fucking job requirement for an archangel to be insufferably rude and – and… How dare they, how _dare_ they, how _fucking dare they!”_

Crowley was fuming and pacing, and Aziraphale was just watching, mind blank, because it was in the nature of demons to defend sloth and gluttony, wasn’t it, and any soft, relieved feelings he was getting from Crowley’s outrage—Well, first, it wasn’t necessarily even outrage _on his behalf, _it was probably just hatred of Archangels in general, and _that_ was expected demonic behavior. Aziraphale should listen to Archangels. He shouldn’t listen to a demon. And if the demon’s words made him feel better, that was just evidence that Crowley was a tempter. Leading him into temptation. “D—deliver me from evil,” he tried to intone, righteously, but the words stuck in his throat and caught on something wet. There was a blank emptiness inside him where his resolve should be. As though nothing was going to matter ever again.

Idly, he watched Crowley pacing and ranting. “Of all the—the weaselheaded fucknuggets, I’ve seen Archangels pull some buggering arsehole _shit _before but for sheer arrogant spouting of blessed rubbish this pair takes the fucking Victoria sponge. How—Honestly, angel, I’m surprised you didn’t kick them out on their bloody self-important arses the moment they started—”

“They were right,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” Crowley was kneeling, suddenly, at Aziraphale’s feet where he sat on the couch. He rested his palms on Aziraphale’s knees and looked up into his eyes. The sunglasses couldn’t hide the earnestness in his expression. _“No. _Aziraphale, do _not _tell me you believed that load of – filthy and utter fucking poison they were spewing. You can’t mean to tell me you gave it a moment’s credit…”

“I shan’t tell you, then,” Aziraphale shrugged, lifting his chin with some dignity, “since you seem to have worked it out perfectly well on your own.”

“Bless it, Aziraphale!” Crowley slammed a fist down on the couch, and Aziraphale jumped. Getting violent, well, if that wasn’t just perfectly demonic behavior. It just showed Crowley couldn’t be trusted. The demon was still ranting. “…think they can speak to you like that, when you’re better than the whole lot of them put together—and you _believe _them, angel, you can’t believe them, don’t tell me you seriously thought for a single minute—”

“I think I should like you to leave now, if you please,” Aziraphale said primly. “Encouraging me to sloth and gluttony is—well, it’s just what someone of your demonic nature _would _do. They were only… only speaking with my best interests at heart.”

“Best interests!? It was all I could do not to come out and bite those bloody buggering cockwombles in the bum, probably have got my teeth snapped off by the stick up their bleeding arses if I had. They were – what’s the fancy term? Belittling you, angel, and you don’t have to take that, you don’t _ever_ have to let them talk to you as if they’re better than you and you’re—”

“They _are _better than me, actually.” Aziraphale said it with conviction. “Archangels are better than Principalities. It makes sense, you see, or else they wouldn’t rank above them. Stands to reason.”

“No…” Crowley clapped a hand over his forehead and shook his head. Aziraphale could tell that he’d closed his eyes beneath his sunglasses. “No, no, no, no, _no, _angel, bloody heaven _no, _this is no time to buy into the blessed party line! Work with me here…”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley. A demon. Kneeling at his feet, as though in supplication. Trying to tell him that his superiors were wrong. He tried to understand anything beyond that, but there was an emptiness echoing in his chest and stomach and he couldn’t quite seem to manage it. There was something inside him – something twisty and bendy, probably _twisted _and _corrupt, _something inside him that _relished _Crowley’s defensive rage, something inside him that was healed when the demon spoke the blasphemous credo that Aziraphale was better than the Archangels.

Well, that was nonsense, obviously. It was Crowley’s demonic wiles playing on his, Aziraphale’s, inner corruption. He tuned Crowley out, thinking inside himself, going back to what he knew, to the basics. Angel. Demon. One superior to the other. Archangel. Angel. One superior to the other. One pledged to thwart the other. They were on opposite sides. That was all there was to it. Simple, when he kept his eyes on the facts.

Except there was something about Crowley kneeling there that made him fancy the demon’s heart was breaking. Which was nonsense, obviously.

Crowley was still speaking, but Aziraphale couldn’t hear him above his own head. What was the bone of contention here in the first place? The fact that Aziraphale was _soft. _No good as Heaven’s warrior. Aziraphale opened his mouth and spoke hesitantly, his soft tones cutting across Crowley’s rant. “Well, naturally,” he began, speaking out of the emptiness filling his chest and stomach, “you’d _want_ me to be weak. Soft. Not a good warrior of Heaven. Otherwise I might thwart you.”

Crowley’s flinch almost made Aziraphale regret having stated the facts. Almost. They didn’t feel particularly _nice _inside his head either. Slowly, Crowley removed his sunglasses, and Aziraphale felt a chill go through him at the pain in the demon’s eyes. “You think _that’s _what this is about?” Crowley whispered. “You being… being _Heaven’s warrior?”_

“An angel’s appearance should—”

“Bollocks!” Crowley burst out. “Where the heaven does it say that you can’t be a good warrior of Heaven _and _enjoy your food _and _be soft? Kind? Angels are supposed to be kind and loving, aren’t you? Or did that get scrubbed out with the rest of the bilge they poured into you?”

Aziraphale set his jaw. “They said so,” he declared. “Said…” It tasted bitter. “That I was a disgrace to an angel’s form. An angel should be a paragon. And they should know. I’m… not a particularly good angel, you see. I’ve… allowed myself to be corrupted by Earthly pleasures. They’re… much purer than me. Untainted.”

“Yeah, that’s why they’re such right wankers.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands in both of his and Aziraphale, to his own shock, found himself _allowing _it. “Angel, I’ve _seen_ you protecting people. _Villages_. You can’t tell me that these _tossers _know you better than I do! You can’t just abandon everything we’ve—”

Aziraphale withdrew his hands sharply. “You forget yourself.” He ignored Crowley rolling his eyes and drew himself up. “_I _am an angel. _You _are a demon. There is no _we, _Crowley, Arrangement or no Arrangement. Archangels know best, you see. I am a part of the Heavenly Host and we are always in contact with each other—”

“Yeah, that’s why they were _so _sympathetic to you when they were tearing you apart—”

“It was for my _own good, _Crowley! They wanted to motivate me to be better! To be a better warrior—”

“And I’m telling you you’re the best warrior out there, doesn’t matter what they _think _their stupid idea of a warrior should _look like—”_

“You… you _want _me to remain a bad warrior,” Aziraphale blurted, the only explanation that made sense on his lips, replacing the warmth of corruption spreading through his heart. It was replacing the emptiness and oh, this was not good, he needed a moment to think. “The—the better for you to thwart me.”

Crowley wasn’t shocked, wasn’t offended, wasn’t even in awe of Aziraphale’s brilliance at seeing through his demonic ruse. He just looked _exasperated. _“Oh bloody heaven, not _this _again—”

“I think you ought to go,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I must… think about the—the _advice _my superiors so kindly gave me.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now. ‘Advice.’ Those nits – fucking wankers, the way they talked to you – they’ve no sodding clue what it’s like to live on Earth, I’d like to see them take four blokes on in a bar fight, I’ve _seen _you fight, Aziraphale, you can’t seriously be pretending those wank-wings know more about what it’s like to live on Earth than—”

Aziraphale’s heart twisted. If the vote of confidence had come from his superiors, it would have been wonderful. But he knew it would never come. Hearing it from Crowley – a demon – his sworn enemy – the one who was on the other side… was sweet, too sweet to bear, and therefore _untrue, _a _lie _and _false _and _corrupt _and _wrong. _He stood. “Goodbye, Crowley.”

Crowley stood as well, all loose limbs and temptation. “Ah, don’t be like that, angel—”

Aziraphale strode purposefully to his desk and sat pointedly at it, although he hadn’t had anything of import on the desk since the morning. It was just galling when Crowley said, “Your manuscripts are over there.”

“Spying on me, are we?”

“I’ve a pair of eyes, that’s all,” Crowley retorted, then added in a smaller voice, “such as they are.” He ducked his head and put his sunglasses on. “May be ugly and demonic, but at least I give a fuck what you’re actually doing, unlike your blessed superior Archangels.”

“Your eyes are perfectly lovely,” Aziraphale snapped, “stop trying to change the subject.” He looked down at the surface of his desk, realized there was nothing to occupy him there, and looked up despairingly again. “Begone, foul fiend!”

“All right.” Crowley took a long moment to turn around and slouch off toward the bookshop door. “I’d say don’t let the bastards grind you down, but it’s already too late, innit?” With the tinkling of the shop-door bell, he was gone.

* * *

Hours of filing and sorting did wonders to numb the mind. Aziraphale was pleasantly vacant when he finally set down the last of the manuscripts. Angelically-issued corporations didn’t suffer from their human-evolved counterparts’ tendency to replay negative experiences over and over in an ill-conceived instinct to avoid future pain, so he was _not _at _all _thinking of anything Sariel had said. He could bear the loss of his warrior form perfectly well, thank you very much. He pulled in a deep, deep breath he didn’t need, but which was calming nevertheless. _How do you endure knowing you are no longer a soldier of Heaven?_

He dragged in another breath. _Stupid fucking halfwit wankers _flashed in his mind, brief and bright, before other words ploughed into him. _You say he was a Principality once? _and_ Soft, no muscle at all, an angel should be a paragon, such a degradation_...

He remembered fingers turning his face this way and that. _Look at this. He _was a degradation. A walking embarrassment. Shameful.

No. _No_. He shook his head to clear it. No ruminating over such thoughts. No self-pity. It was all his fault, anyway. All he had to do was turn over a new leaf, that was all. Be a better angel. Not… not _soft, _not—

The ring of the desk phone interrupted his thoughts. Normally, he’d ignore it, this long past closing time, but it was a bit of a welcome relief, to be frank. “A.Z. Fell, booksell—Ah!”

He’d _heard _of it, demons travelling via phone line, but for an angel—it was _undignified, _being _sucked into the receiver _and compressed into what felt like an over-constricting corset pinning his arms and _dissolving into electric energy _that shunted him through time and space at quite indecent speeds and then depositing—_dumping, _really—depositing him out into a darkened mews somewhere that stank abominably of rubbish, bins littered about everywhere. Aziraphale scrambled to his feet, hands automatically dusting off his jacket as he cast about him, looking all around—

—and immediately seeing a fight. If four on one could be called a fight at all. Four men gathered around a fifth, beaten to the ground, lying in the gutter, kicking him as he tried desperately to curl into a ball and shield his head with his arms. No, not men—_demons. _Now he’d had a moment, Aziraphale could sense demonic energy rolling off them in waves. This wasn’t the familiar spicy curl of Crowley’s aura tickling his nose but a full-on blast of _hate, rage, bitterness, resentment, hurt, kill. _

It struck straight to his core, propelling him forward without his own volition. He felt his wings burst out, flooding the dirty walls and concrete with light as they manifested onto the earthly plane. “DESIST!” he cried, feeling himself levitate a few inches with the force of it.

He expected the demons to scatter, but they just straightened, pausing for a bare instant, before they ran at him. “Fucking angel, knew you’d show up to—”

“This is your final warning!” Not that he thought they would heed it, but it was the thing to do. Yup—not heeding it. Why did no-one ever heed warnings?

They were still coming at him. Aziraphale reached for a non-existent scabbard and swept out a sword—not flaming, but it would do. He swung it in a wide arc, gratified when the demons jerked back. One brave – or foolhardy – demon ducked under the blade, narrowly missing the edge, and crowded in close, the others jockeying for position behind him. Aziraphale grabbed Foolhardy’s arm and twisted, using his momentum to flip him into a somersault – a lizard tattoo shone briefly on the back of his neck in the spillover of light from the main road – and send him crashing down into the concrete on his back.

An arm snaked around his throat from behind; Aziraphale let his knees buckle, dropping, then promptly bent over forward, flipping the demon over his head into another attacker charging in full frontal. They thudded into a heap and lay there, groaning—

A whisper of feet on concrete had Aziraphale spinning, wings tucked in close, sword raised defensively. His eyes widened at the sight of a broadsword brandished by the fourth demon, slicing low and flat. Aziraphale swung his sword up just in time, blade clanging against blade inches from Aziraphale's soft middle. A moment more and Azirapahale's insides would have been, well, on the outside.

The clash of metal reverberated up Aziraphale's arms, a result of his poor grip from his last-minute defense, and the sword-hilt slipped in his grasp. He could have fumbled for it, probably losing precious seconds doing so, but instead made the split-second decision to let his weapon clatter to the ground. Aziraphale didn't hesitate, crowding Broadsword before he could recover from the impact himself, and _swung_.

The demon's eyes widened just before Aziraphale's fist connected with his jaw. He didn't hold back, putting his entire upper body into the punch. Broadsword’s head snapped back and he crumpled, his own weapon falling noisily onto the pavement. He didn’t get up.

Aziraphale stepped back, flexing his hands, allowing his wings to spread out once more. None of his assailants was moving from where they lay crumpled on the pavement. “Begone, demons,” he boomed in his best Intimidating Angel tone, gratified when two of them miracled themselves away and one of them, to put it crudely, legged it as fast as he could manage. That left the unconscious demon at his feet. After a moment’s thought, Aziraphale snapped his fingers and sent him to a mews close to Putney Bridge. That done, he could turn his attention to their angelic victim still lying on the ground – the residual aura definitely read ‘angel’, though it offered no clues as to identity, and it was too dark to make it out at a distance.

When he approached, the angel was up on his elbows, blinking—“Sariel!” Aziraphale blurted, recognizing the burly archangel from that morning. “Whatever brings you here?” He realized he didn’t quite know what ‘here’ was, but it was definitely Earth, which was close enough. “What on earth happened?”

“It was a trap…” Sariel coughed as Aziraphale knelt by him and offered him a supportive arm, “set by…” Sariel jerked, then relaxed as Aziraphale healed his bumps and bruises with a quick pass of his hand. “Thank you.”

“No trouble at all, don’t mention it.”

The archangel appeared to do a double-take. “Az… wait… Aziraphale, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale found the adrenaline pounding through his corporation’s veins did a lot to blunt the memory of their last meeting. “Guardian of Eden, Angel of the Eastern Gate, at your service,” he rattled off politely.

“Who…” Sariel squinted into the darkness as though expecting someone else. “Who else is with you?”

Aziraphale hoped the archangel wasn’t seeing double. “Just yours truly, I’m afraid.”

“What?” Sariel sat up straighter. “But… you can’t have been! There must have been at _least _two angels fighting!”

“I’m afraid not,” Aziraphale chuckled, looking down at the pavement. “Here, let me help you up…”

“But… but… do you mean to tell me that it was just you? You subdued four demons on your own?!”

“Um… well, they were just little demons really. Tiddlers…”

Aziraphale chanced a glance at Sariel’s face, and the unabashed admiration in his expression really was quite terribly embarrassing. The archangel ploughed on. “And you—did my eyes deceive me, or did I see you subdue a demon armed with a broadsword with only your bare hands?”

“Er, well… It’s quite simple, really, if you know the basics and, er…”

“You are a formidable warrior.”

Aziraphale let out a tight chuckle, running his finger around the inside of his collar. Fighting did tend to make one unconscionably sweaty. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that…”

Sariel climbed to his feet, still not quite steady. Aziraphale proffered a helpful elbow, but the archangel visibly shook himself and straightened, brushing himself off. Aziraphale withdrew his arm, a little ashamed. How dared he presume to offer support to an archangel, a being superior to him in every…

“…apology.”

And now he’d been woolgathering, and not listening. How much worse could he look? “Terribly sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?”

“Admitting when one is at fault is a virtue. Principality Aziraphale, I owe you an apology. You are a formidable fighter, a warrior worthy of being in Her army, and I misjudged you, allowing appearances to lead me astray.”

Aziraphale blinked several times. “Well, that’s quite…”

“I should have heeded the injunction, ‘Judge not according to the appearance, but judge righteous judgment.’ I committed the error of judging by outward appearance.” Sariel laid a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, ramrod straight. “You saved me this night, and you proved yourself a true warrior of Heaven.”

Aziraphale could feel a flush of warmth beginning to creep up under his collar and up his neck, and this time he was honest enough with himself to know it wasn’t residual heat from the fight. “Um. Er.”

“You have the courage of a lion and the heart of a Seraphim. Your speed is unparalleled and you fight with the strength of ten.” Sariel shook his head. “What matters it if you choose to present your corporation in a manner that does not accord with tradition? You are a shining example of Heaven’s finest, an asset to Her and a guardian to your fellow-angels.”

The warm flush was halfway up his face now, and Aziraphale fought not to swell with pride under Sariel’s hand, still firmly on his shoulder. “Um. Wouldn’t go so far as to say that, they don’t really need a… well, _guardian, _as it were, quite capable of guarding themselves, really…”

“I have committed a grievous error in misjudging you, Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of Eden, Angel of the Eastern Gate. I beg your forgiveness.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Oh, it’s er, really quite all right, er…”

“No.” Sariel was adamant. “I recognize heroism when I see it. You leapt into battle without hesitation in a righteous defense against clearly unequal numbers, in defense of an innocent.”

The archangel was wide-eyed as he gazed into Aziraphale’s face, seeming to be looking up at him, although Sariel was taller. It would have been embarrassing if it hadn’t been healing the memory of his supercilious attitude from before. What had he even said? Aziraphale couldn’t recall his insulting words, basking as he was in the archangel’s admiring gaze. “Well,” Aziraphale said, “I could hardly, um, witness such an, er… an assault and stand by.”

“Gabriel would have,” Sariel said evenly. “Michael would have. Even I would have. Such a protective instinct must be the reason She appointed you a guardian, a warrior. I should have seen past the illusion to your true nature—your true courage, your true valour. I was wrong, sinful, to say such things before. Forgive me.”

Aziraphale knew pride was a sin, so he managed to keep his smile contained. The memory of Sariel looking superciliously at him was fast fading: he could hardly remember it, it had been so thoroughly replaced by the archangel’s humbled, admiring gaze. “Er…”

“I beg your forgiveness again.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale finally realized what was expected of him. “Of course I er, forgive you, my dear fellow, it’s nothing to worry about really. Under—” he choked for a minute, “—quite an understandable mistake.”

“It is not, and you are forgiving as well as courageous.” Sariel let his hand fall from Aziraphale’s shoulder. “You could have left them to belabor me, on the pretext that it was none of your concern. You would have been justified in not entering a fight in which you were clearly outnumbered. But you not only charged in to my defense; you acquitted yourself magnificently in close combat and incapacitated three opponents with strength, skill and resourcefulness.” Sariel’s words, his gratitude, should not have felt as though they were closing the wounds in his soul, yet they did.

“You possess an adamantine spirit and a loving heart, and the virtue of modesty drives you to conceal your merits under an unassuming exterior – an exterior I should have known better than to take at face value.” Sariel stepped back and gave a brief bow. “Principality Aziraphale, I have wronged you, and I will make amends. I shall make sure the Archangel Gabriel hears of your heroism against the minions of the demon Crowley tonight.”

Aziraphale choked. In the periphery of his hearing, he was sure he heard a small, satisfied hiss. “What?”

“I said, I have wronged you, and I shall—”

“No, no.” Aziraphale waved his hands. “Did I hear you mention—er, my arch-nemesis, the foul fiend, the demon Crowley?”

Sariel nodded solemnly. “The demons let slip that he told them of an Archangel’s presence on Earth. It was he who set them upon me. If you had not arrived in time…” He shuddered faintly. “I tremble to think what would have happened.”

“Yes, well. Good thing I did, isn’t it.” Aziraphale made a shooing motion with both hands. “Right, off to Heaven with you. Don’t want you getting in any more bother, do we now? Earth's a terribly dangerous place, and all that.”

Sariel straightened to go. “How did you arrive so opportunely, by the way?”

_I’d like to know the answer to that myself. _Outwardly, Aziraphale gave a light laugh. “Oh, angelic instinct. Comes with being a guardian, and all that. Bye!”

He stared resolutely at the archangel until he faded away, still promising to make up for his errors in judgment. When he was positive it was deserted, he waited another few minutes, then folded his arms across his chest. “I demand an explanation,” he said sternly, addressing the empty cul-de-sac.

A soft hiss came from the darkness. “Don’t I get a glass of wine first?”

* * *

“It was—hic—all ferpectly normal and above-board, angel. He told you what happened. I’m a demon, aren’t I? I find,” Crowley let out a burp, “I find archangels on my turf, I set demons on ‘em to beat them up. ‘S what demons do. ‘S what happened. Sariel even told you as much.”

“You haven’t set demons on Gabriel,” Aziraphale pointed out, lips tight. He wasn’t nearly as deep into the wine as Crowley, mainly because he wanted to understand what in the world was going on.

“Not because I didn’t want to,” Crowley said darkly. “You can be sure of that.”

“But why Sariel? What did he do to you?”

Crowley muttered something that sounded like, ‘not to me.’

Aziraphale spluttered. “What do you mean, not to you? He’s a perfectly respectable archangel, he’s done nothing to anybody—What earthly reason could you have for resorting to—to _violent acts _against him? Whom might he conceivably have injured?”

Crowley slumped deeper into the couch and looked off into a dark corner. Human ears would not have heard the sibilant whisper, “You, angel.”

Aziraphale choked. _Him? _What on earth did Crowley—

But he _knew _what Crowley meant. Could remember the coiled (protective?) shadowy snake concealed under the furniture, listening as Sariel said—said—what _had _he said? Aziraphale reached inside himself for the hurtful words and the pain that had accompanied them. He could feel where the pain ought to be in his chest, but it had been replaced by a quiet glow and _I have committed a grievous error in misjudging you_ and _I recognize heroism when I see it_. He felt around for any trace of the humiliation he _knew _had been there, but which he could no longer feel. All he could find was _I should have seen past the illusion to your true valour_, and_ I was wrong, sinful, to say such things before._

Aziraphale was suddenly deeply glad he was still only halfway drunk. “You…” he managed to say, waving the hand not holding his wineglass at Crowley, “you… because he…?” That quiet glow was becoming a swell of warmth that filled his heart, and he knew he was feeling it for all the wrong reasons but he’d be, well, damned if he could stop it.

Crowley just shrugged. “’S in my demonic nature. New archangel shows up, walking around like he owns the place, gotta show him… show him…” The carefully-prepared, suave speech seemed to have foundered. Crowley let out another burp. _“Show _him,” he finished, waving his now empty glass for emphasis.

“You didn’t have to do that for me.” Aziraphale didn’t intend to say it, didn’t realize he’d said it until the words were already hanging in the air between them.

“Yeah, I did.” Crowley fumbled for the wine-bottle and, with exaggerated deliberateness, wrapped his fingers around its neck. He looked from it to the glass for a moment, then plunked the glass down on the table and took a swig straight from the bottle. “Nobody gets away with—er, nobody runs around—that is—what I meantersay, Az—Azira—angel,” he shook his head and put the bottle down, “he shouldn’t’ve said that, all that bollocks. Had to show him somehow, didn’t I?”

Aziraphale found himself sitting quite still, slowly absorbing the words. Crowley was _admitting _he’d eavesdropped on a Heavenly conversation. Admitting he’d had the demons thump Sariel because of the hurtful things he’d said toward Aziraphale. Crowley’s behavior had crossed a line. It ought to be deserving of righteous wrath. Settling personal grudges was _not _any part of the Arrangement. Aziraphale didn’t need anyone to come to his rescue. He’d been fine. The archangel had probably been right to say whatever he… whatever he… _You acquitted yourself magnificently in close combat… You possess an adamantine spirit and a loving heart… Modesty drives you to conceal your merits under an unassuming exterior… _The warmth swelled through him again.

Aziraphale swirled a finger around the rim of his glass for a long time. “I suppose,” he said finally, “it is my job to thwart your, er, evil deeds.”

“Right you are, angel. Thass the spirit!” Crowley raised the bottle. “An’ what’s a nice upsa—up-_stan-ding,”_ he enunciated carefully, “upstanding angelic chap to go about thwarting if there aren’t any evil deeds to thwart, am I right?”

Aziraphale was smiling in spite of himself. “Indeed.”

“A thwart-_er_— is that a word? Never mind, it is now, innit—a thwart-_er_ needs a thwart-_ee_, is what they need. Yin an’—an’ yang, right? Gotta have balance, or else it all gets all bollocksed up.”

“Eloquent as usual, my dear.”

Crowley set the wine bottle down on the table with a heavy _thunk, _and it teetered for a moment before deciding to stay upright. Crowley’s head was all the way down on the armrest, his eyelids flagging at half-mast. “I th—thwart Sariel the wanker, you thwart me, lessall get on the thwarting merry-go-round…”

He trailed off into a soft, sibilant snore.

Aziraphale leaned forward and eased himself up to a standing position. He looked around the half-lit bookshop, leather covers glinting here and there in the soft glow of the desk lamp, empty bottles all around their haphazard seating area, and a heap of limp, boneless demon piled onto his couch. “I really ought to smite you,” he murmured softly, “you wicked… er…”

He couldn’t seem to find anything to say, so he contented himself with lifting Crowley’s feet up onto the couch and covering him up with the afghan. A smile appeared on Crowley’s sleeping face as he squirmed and snuggled deeper into the cushions like a contented cat. A surge of affection swept through Aziraphale, so strong he had to turn away for a moment. This was wrong—_wrong—_all of it, all of it, one day they would be found out and they would – well, it didn’t matter so much what Heaven would do to _him, _but Crowley, Crowley who lay so secure and vulnerable on his couch, would be _destroyed…_

_Crowley who had Sariel attacked because he insulted you, then called you so you’d rescue him… _Aziraphale didn’t need to pick up Crowley’s mobile to check the last dialed number. There was no-one else it could have been. _So he’d… take back what he said about you—_And again that glow of warmth surged through him, the same glow he’d felt while being praised by the archangel. And Crowley had _engineered _that… He shook his head. “Wily serpent,” he breathed.

As Aziraphale miracled their mess away and turned to go upstairs, Sariel’s words from earlier echoed through his head. _Such a protective instinct must be the reason She appointed you a guardian._ His eyes flickered to the demon sleeping on the couch. _I should have seen past the illusion to your true nature_, Sariel had said. Aziraphale crossed the room and clicked off the desk lamp. A shining slice of moonlight cut through the room, silvering the edges of the books and the shock of Crowley’s hair, turning it into a halo. Maybe, Aziraphale couldn’t help thinking, knowing it was blasphemous to think it but thinking it anyway, maybe it wasn’t just Sariel who had had the benefit of a guardian angel tonight.


End file.
